Page 3

“There is a sign by the door,” he says, from below me. “It has numbers on it.”

“Those are the library’s hours. Tuesday through Saturday, ten to six. The library is closed Sunday and Monday.” I shelve a western. “We used to be open Mondays. The county cut the day when I was in middle school and said it was temporary.”

I’m rambling. I’m sure he doesn’t care if it used to be open on Mondays.

“What does it say about the day of the storytelling?”

“Thursdays at ten. It just says story hour.”

“It does not say who comes.”

“No. It’s a small sign.”

He’s quiet for a minute. I keep shelving.

“May I see the book about the moon?”

“It’s on the cart.”

He finds the moon book on top. He holds the edges with both hands, and it’s about the size of one of his palms. Hands that large could cup my entire ass. My stomach flips, and there’s a steady pulse between my legs. I need to get laid before I do something stupid like offer my body up for a thorough reading.

He opens the book and looks at the page for a long time, then turns it sideways. I can tell he can’t read it. The implant in his head only translates speech. He can read runes his people carve into stone, but that doesn’t help him read books.

He sets it back on the cart. “It is very beautiful.”

My back is to him as I shelve the last two westerns. When I start down, he’s right there. He’s standing at the foot of the ladder with one hand on the rail, and when I reach the fourth rung and look over my shoulder, my face is exactly level with his. There’s maybe a foot of air between us. I can see the detail of the ring cut into his tusk.

He freezes.

I’ve never seen anyone go this still. His chest doesn’t move. His pupils go wide until there’s no amber left in his eyes. Heat comes off him, enough that my face goes hot and the brass rail under my hand starts to hum.

Then the glass in the reading room doors sings.

It’s one high note, the sound a wineglass makes when you run a wet finger around the rim. It comes from both doors at once, and the banker’s lamps pick it up a half-second later.

And then I smell him.

He smells like pine resin, the sticky kind that’s on your palms after you carry a Christmas tree. Under that, there’s hot candle wax. And there’s date-stamp ink, the smell that’s on my own fingers all day, and for one confused second, I think I’ve touched my face.

I haven’t. It’s him.

My body reacts before my brain does. I’m wet in about a second, soaked through my panties and tights. My nipples go hard so fast it stings. There’s a pull under my ribs toward him, hard enough that I actually lean, and I grab the rail with my free hand.

My glasses are in my hand.

I don’t know when I took them off. They were on my face, and now they’re in my fingers with the rail, and I’m looking at him. He’s so close I don’t even need them to see him clearly.

Oh, fuck. I know what this is. God help me, I know exactly what this is.

It’s called kel’ahn, the knowing. Every orc is born with one mate, and he knows her the second he smells her. It’s a once-in-his-life event.

Everybody in town knows the word. It’s in the government pamphlet, and it’s in every orc romance the county buys by the crate. I’ve read most of them, because somebody has to know what we’re shelving, and half of what’s in them is made up. In April the whole town watched Korrag Stonehollow go still at the grange potluck when he smelled Elsie, and that night I went home and read the pamphlet twice, front to back.

The pamphlet said the woman may feel “a pull.” A pull. I’m soaked and wondering what would happen if I launched myself at him and wrapped my legs around him. Somebody at that agency should be fired. But worse yet, this can’t be happening. Not now.

“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”

The hum in the rail stops. His ears come forward. He hasn’t blinked.